


Shall We Come To An Agreement?

by MagicaDraconia16



Series: 2021 Bingos [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Dark, Gen, M/M, Object Insertion, Rape, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture, Trope Bingo Round 16, TropesAndFandoms21, Violence, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:40:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29243730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicaDraconia16/pseuds/MagicaDraconia16
Summary: He has my wife and children, he said to Simza and the two strange Englishmen she brought with her.We made a deal, he and I.What he didn’t say to them was,Before that, they had me, too.
Relationships: Sebastian Moran & Claude Ravache, Sebastian Moran & James Moriarty, Sebastian Moran/Claude Ravache
Series: 2021 Bingos [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2119095
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4
Collections: Trope Bingo: Round Sixteen, Tropes and Fandoms 2021





	Shall We Come To An Agreement?

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, this is a much darker fic than anything I've ever written before, so I'm not sure how well it came out, especially with a minor character, and another who's only on-screen for about 5 minutes. There really isn't a good ending for this at all, so please take care while reading, and if there's anything else specifically that needs tagging, please let me know. 
> 
> Written for **Trope Bingo Round 16:** _B5 - All Fun And Games_ (er... of a sort)   
> And also for the new round of **TropesAndFandoms21:** _regular square - Dark_

Claude Ravache made sure that he was scowling as the burlap sack was drawn up and over his head. Not only to give an immediate impression to his captors that he was _not_ amused by this, but also to protect his vision from the light. The bag had been thin enough that he could tell night had turned into day, but not thin _enough_ to let any of that light through so his eyes could adjust.

A tall, lean man dressed in an English suit smiled cordially at Claude as he carelessly tossed the sack aside. “Sorry about the little pantomime there,” he said in English, in a low, hoarse voice. “But the Professor wanted to see you.”

Claude frowned at him in truth this time. “Professor?” he repeated, in French. “I think you’ve got the wrong man. I don’t know any professors,” he said, and wondered if the man could even understand him.

“You may know me better,” said a soft, cultivated voice from the nearby shadows in perfect, flawless French, “as _M_.”

Claude swallowed hard as a taller man emerged from the darkness. The English man who’d brought him here looked like a common-class Englishman, scruffy beard and all; this man was clearly of a much higher class. Unfortunately, there was only one ‘M’ that Claude corresponded with.

M had first written to him almost a year previously, offering equipment and money towards their cause. Despite these being sorely needed, Claude had politely refused; there were hints, if you knew how to read them, of a favour being requested in return. There was only one sort of favour an anarchist group like _Lapin Vert_ could offer, and the entire point of their cause was to not be under the thumb of anyone in upper class authority.

The offer had been put forward again several times, but it hadn’t been until recently that Claude had realised the letters were coming on a much more frequent basis. The last one had been delivered by a man who said that he was Rene, yet who looked nothing like the young man Claude remembered.

Claude had still refused, although the monetary offer was greatly tempting. He still had his pride, after all.

That had been two days previously, and now Claude had been ambushed and unceremoniously hustled away to who-knew-where so that M could talk to him in person.

Perhaps he should have taken greater heed of just how insistent M had been.

“I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience,” M said, his mouth curling up into a small smile. “But I’m afraid it’s getting too close to the point where I really do need _Lapin Vert_ ’s assistance, so regrettably, I have to be far more… _persuasive_.”

Claude’s blood ran cold. He had the terrible thought that M did not mean to be _verbally_ persuasive.

“I’m sure my associate here will be able to convince you fairly quickly,” continued M, gesturing at the Englishman. “He is so very talented at it.”

“Thank you, Professor,” the man murmured, ducking his head slightly in a movement that Claude would have called bashful under any other circumstances. “I won’t let you down, I swear.”

“Of course you won’t,” M agreed. The smile finally dropped away, leaving his expression haughty and cold. “Send me a telegram when our little bombmaker here agrees, won’t you,” he said as he turned to move back into the shadows he’d come from.

For one brief, insane, instant, Claude felt a surge of anger rise up in his breast. Regardless of the fact that the Englishman was plainly about to use some barbaric method to soften Claude up so that he’d agree to whatever scheme this M had planned, he was Claude Ravache, leader of one of the most feared anarchist groups in Paris! He had not risen to his lofty position by being easily ‘persuaded’.

He spat at the Englishman. “Arrogant pig!” he hissed.

The Englishman glanced down at where the spittle had landed in front of his feet and seemed to consider it for a moment before looking up again at Claude. He smiled, and Claude’s blood ran even colder than before, because it was the same kind of smile that M had given him.

“That wasn’t very nice, now, was it?” he said. “Shall we get started, then? I’ve been looking forward to this.”

He sidestepped around Claude. Twisting his head until he feared he’d break his own neck, Claude strained to see over his shoulder where the man had gone. Unfortunately, it seemed the room had more depth than he’d expected – or the Englishman had gone even further behind him – as he couldn’t see a sign of the man.

Acknowledging that he was likely going to get a nasty surprise, Claude straightened up and turned his head back to face the front – only to give an involuntary shout of surprise and rear backwards as he discovered the Englishman standing right in front of him. The Englishman caught his chair with a foot on the seat of it, saving Claude from tipping over backwards.

Claude didn’t know whether he should say something – it didn’t seem right to thank a man for catching him when that same man had been the reason why Claude had needed catching in the first place – but before he could decide one way or the other, the Englishman stepped back a pace.

And Claude’s face exploded with pain.

Claude grunted at the shock of it and gingerly straightened his head. The Englishman was holding a short but thick piece of wood that looked like some kind of chair or table leg. Claude’s cheekbone throbbed harder at the sight of it, and he could feel the faint tickle as a small drop of blood oozed up through the broken skin.

“Hmm.” The Englishman hefted the piece of wood in his hand as though measuring the heft of it. “Very nice. But not exactly wieldy. I’m not sure I’m convinced of it.” Abruptly, he lashed out, smashing the wood against the other side of Claude’s face.

Claude straightened again, wishing that his hands weren’t tied behind his back so he could try and feel how back this injury was. The Englishman had aimed higher, that time, and it had caught Claude more on the side of his eye socket. It would be a miracle if the bone hadn’t broken, but it was certainly going to leave a nasty bruise and impair Claude’s vision for a while.

The Englishman tossed it aside. “Nah, I don’t think I like that one after all,” he said, and disappeared round behind Claude again. Claude didn’t bother trying to look this time.

Something large and round smacked into the meat of his left arm, closer to his elbow than the shoulder. Claude hissed; his arm immediately began to throb, but he didn’t think the object had hit him hard enough to even fracture the bone, let alone break it.

“Goodness, that one’s terrible,” the Englishman said in mild disgust, tossing it aside. It clanked loudly as it bounced off the wall, and Claude was finally able to see that it was a pipe of some sort. “Absolutely no finesse whatsoever. That won’t do. Let me see now.” He made a soft humming noise for a moment. “Ah,” he exclaimed, finally. “Let’s try this.”

A thinner pipe smashed directly into his other elbow. Claude had no idea whether it was just a lucky shot or not, but the sound of his elbow breaking was clearly audible, and he couldn’t help the shout of pain he gave as the outraged nerves in that arm roared to life.

The Englishman strolled back around to stand in front of Claude. “Oh, yes, that’s the one,” he said. “Now, let’s get you into a better position, eh?” And before Claude could brace himself, or even realise what the other man planned to do, he’d kicked out at the seat of the chair Claude was tied to and tipped it backwards.

Unable to help himself, Claude fell backwards with it. His legs followed with such momentum that they continued onwards, and Claude essentially rolled off the chair. Of course, with his arms still tied to it, he didn’t roll far, and he screamed this time as his left shoulder dislocated itself.

“Whoops. Sorry about that.” The Englishman bent down and slashed straight through the ropes with a pocketknife. Then he gripped hold of Claude’s right arm and hauled him up.

Unfortunately, the Englishman happened to be gripping Claude’s broken elbow, and Claude lost the next few moments in a wash of agonising pain as the parts of the bone grated against themselves, and then another few moments in even more agonising pain as his dislocated shoulder was yanked upwards so that his arm was above his head.

When he was finally able to blink the spots from his vision, it was to discover that his hands had been tied to a hook and he’d been hoisted into the air like a slab of cattle meat in the processing factory. Claude stared up at the hook. The Englishman apparently knew what he was doing; the rope had been thoroughly wound around the prongs of the hook so Claude couldn’t just lift it up and over.

The Englishman had taken a step back and was examining his handiwork appraisingly. “Well then,” he said, once he realised that Claude’s attention was on him. “Are you ready to agree to the Professor’s offer yet? Or shall we move on to the next part of our fun and games?”

Claude growled and kicked out at the man, who easily dodged him. “Temper, temper,” the Englishman scolded, amusement ringing in his voice. “Alright, we can continue if you insist. There’s a new technique I’ve been wanting to try out…” He turned this time, not out of Claude’s sight, but to a table set up at the side of the room. Claude couldn’t help the apprehension that shivered through him as the Englishman turned back to him holding a lantern.

Claude half expected the Englishman to douse him in the lantern oil, but instead the Englishman pulled out the candle from inside and tossed the housing away. Then he reached into a pocket of his suit and pulled out a silver lighter.

“What d’you think?” he asked Claude. “It’d probably be better without that cloth in the way?” Not waiting for any response Claude might have made, he pulled out his pocketknife again and took hold of the hem of Claude’s trousers, stretching the cloth out as he slashed up the outside leg seam. Goosebumps immediately dotted Claude’s leg as the material flapped free, leaving his lower leg bare.

Some of them were almost instantly chased away by the Englishman lighting the candle and holding it up beside Claude’s leg. And then moving it closer. And closer. Until the little spot of warmth had become markedly uncomfortable, and Claude attempted to move away from it.

But restrained as he was, and with the Englishman still having a hand free to hold his ankle, he didn’t move far. A moment later, the flame was licking at his leg, the hair there beginning to curl and crisp as it was singed. Claude struggled, and attempted to kick the Englishman.

“Let’s mix things up a bit, shall we?” the Englishman suggested after a while. Claude’s leg had burn marks dotted all over it but the candle was a very thick one; it had barely burnt down at all. What _had_ burnt, though, had left a pool of wax swimming in the top of it. And the Englishman now tilted the candle over Claude’s kneecap.

Claude gave a hiss of pain as the hot wax splashed onto his skin. The wax itself cooled quickly enough but it trapped the heat in underneath, so that Claude’s skin felt as though it was on fire, stretched and overheated.

“Oh, very nice,” the Englishman hummed approvingly as he studied the area, before tipping the candle again and dripping a line of wax down the front of Claude’s leg.

Claude was a bit ashamed to admit, but he sort of lost track of things after that, preferring instead to close his eyes against the literally burning on his leg and attempt to prevent himself from screaming aloud. He didn’t want to give the Englishman any idea that he might be close to giving in to M’s demand.

A bright line of pain across the back of his calf muscle brought him back to the present. He looked down, and realised, horrified, that the Englishman had just sliced him with the pocketknife and was now holding the candle above it. “ _Non, non!_ ” he choked out, but was either too late or dismissed entirely. The Englishman tilted the candle, and a large stream of melted wax was poured directly into the open wound.

Claude’s mind drowned in a rush of absolute white-hot _agony_.

“Well?” he vaguely heard the Englishman say, underneath the sound of his own screams. “Are you ready to accept the Professor’s offer yet?”

Claude didn’t have the ability to know what the offer was, or had been, let alone say yes or no to it. The blazing pain in his leg overrode everything, blaring its warnings in his brain that _his nerves were injured_. Screaming it out did nothing, attempting to remove his leg from the warmth did nothing, because it merely moved with him – if he was even moving the leg at all. He couldn’t tell.

When he was finally able to pay attention to his surroundings again, some unidentified amount of time later, he discovered that he’d been released from the hook and was now lying flat on his back on the floor underneath it. The Englishman was crouched beside him, gaze sharp on his face.

Claude took a quick mental overview of himself. His left lower leg burned and throbbed in time with his heartbeat. His left shoulder was still dislocated, and his upper arm on that side was heavily bruised. His right elbow was broken, although the pain from that was almost non-existent compared to his leg.

He was also, he realised with a jolt of horror, lying _naked_ on the floor.

“Did you know,” the Englishman said, suddenly, “that I’ve never done something like this before? I’m a sniper, you see, one of the best in the British Army until I had a bit of… trouble.” His mouth quirked up in a small smile. “I usually prefer being behind the crosshairs. But I’m glad the Professor encouraged me to branch out a bit. It’s been interesting; very educational.” He lifted the pocketknife into view and twisted it, allowing the light coming from who knew where to catch and sparkle on it as it turned. “Time for my next lesson,” he said, and the pocketknife swung downwards.

To be brutally honest, Claude didn’t even feel half of the long, shallow cuts the Englishman gave him. Perhaps if they’d been deeper, he would have – although he certainly wasn’t going to _say_ that out loud – but the cuts weren’t bad enough to compete with the deep, wax-filled wound in his leg.

He did, however, feel it when the Englishman surged to his feet and abruptly stomped down on his hand. For a brief moment, the pulsing fire disappeared as several bones in his hand cracked and splintered and broke. He moaned, unable to scream any longer, and weakly tried to jerk his hand back to safety.

“Ready to agree to the Professor’s terms yet?” the Englishman asked.

Claude made a weak attempt at spitting at him but didn’t have enough saliva left in his mouth. The Englishman apparently saw the effort, though, and twisted his heel before removing it. Claude whimpered.

“I think I know just the thing to help you make up your mind,” the Englishman said. He briefly disappeared from Claude’s view. “Now, I’ve never done this myself, so I apologise if I get it wrong.” He came back into sight holding a wooden pole. Claude wondered if he was going to get beaten with it, but it didn’t really look sturdy enough for that.

The Englishman knelt down beside him again, at his feet this time, and Claude found himself being abruptly rolled over. He couldn’t help the cry of pain he gave; the Englishman had not been careful with his injuries in the slightest. He shivered as sensitive parts of his anatomy met the cold floor. The Englishman began prodding him in the rear with the stick.

Claude tensed. He didn’t know what torture the insane Englishman was going to inflict on him now, but he was already getting an _extremely_ bad feeling about it.

And then…

Claude _screamed_ as the pole was abruptly, and roughly, shoved into a place that absolutely nothing should have gone in. The pole was fairly thin, as it went, but it was still an intrusion. It still caused Claude’s flesh to stretch and burn and _tear_ as the Englishman forced it into him. He could feel his internal muscles clamping down on it, trying to stop its forward momentum, to push it back out again, but the Englishman was firm. He pushed it steadily, and Claude screamed again. The wood wasn’t smooth; splinters caught at his flesh, and he prayed nothing would stick. If the torture didn’t kill him, then surely the surgery to retrieve any… _pieces_ would.

“Heh, would you look at that,” mused the Englishman. “Still not my kind of thing, though.” He yanked the stick out even more roughly than he’d thrust it in, and Claude screamed for a third time. That time had definitely torn something inside – he could feel a stream of blood flowing out of him, over and down his leg. He went limp, panting, unable to hide the tears that were also flowing from him.

The Englishman patted Claude on the leg and leant over so that he could see Claude’s face. Claude closed his eyes, unwilling to look. “Perhaps it works better when it’s a female,” the Englishman said to him. “Your wife might like it, eh?”

Claude’s eyes shot open again. No. _No!_

The Englishman grinned at his horrified expression. “Oh, yes,” he confirmed, nodding. “We’ve got your wife and children here, too. Are you ready to agree to the Professor’s terms yet?”

_Ma chère femme…_ In that moment, Claude felt his resistance crack and then fall to pieces. He could stand whatever they did to him, but his wife didn’t deserve to be put through something like this. And his children… No, Claude wouldn’t allow them to be hurt.

“Yes,” he croaked. “Yes, I will agree. Just, please, don’t hurt my wife and children.”

“The Professor knew you’d see things his way.” The Englishman patted him on the head like a dog who’d finally learnt a new trick and then stood up to leave the room, presumably to go and send the telegram as M had requested.

Claude Ravache laid his head back on the ground, closed his eyes, and wept. 


End file.
